Loyalté Me Lie
by Avalon Medieval
Summary: A glimpse in the night before the Battle of Bosworth between Elizabeth of York and Richard III. (Some smut, some torment)


He had not meant to fall in love with her, but he had. At first it had been a dangerous game. A snare. He had intended only to fool those loyal to the White Queen and Edward's legacy to ensure his rule through her, and a little part of him wanted to ruin her; ruin her because she was betrothed to his adversary. His interest in her had been a ruse in the beginning, but now it was something more - _a lot more._ Little by little, he had fallen prey in his own trap.

Richard captured her lovelorn gaze, his dark eyes fathomless and full of passion. He watched her suck in a breath. She was leery of him. She had a right to be. He held her future, heart, and reputation in the palm of his hand, and her gaze suggested she knew it. He could honor her, make her his wife and queen, or he could break her like she he had broken his Anne.

"And that you laughed at me for loving you," Bess said, her voice on the verge of tears. She had never known heartbreak until Richard had cast her from his castle after Anne's death. And now, in this very moment, she felt as if she might die if he denied her his love.

Richard, fathomless, withholding his emotions as he routinely did, watched her a few seconds before replying. She, usually vivacious and oozing of life, appeared meek and desperate. Desperate for his love. Barely a whisper, his voice pained, "I love you." _There he had said it._

A gleam of relief sparkled within her pretty eyes. She loved him shamelessly and openly revealed it. And her love had broken his dearly departed wife's heart. _No, he had broken it. This was all him_.

He quickly added, "And I hate myself for it." And that was no lie. He hated himself for loving his niece. Was it really love? He had questioned himself countless times. It had not been at first, but, alas, he had been captured in his own snare. Now he ached for her in the night; dream of her during the wakening hours. Her angelic face plagued him, awake and in slumber. He desired naught food nor drink, it seemed only her body could quench him. _Was this what real love feels like? Or was this bewitchment?_ Bess was, after all, the daughter and granddaughter of witches, and he knew she practiced magic. Perhaps she had enchanted him as her mother had once his brother.

He had always thought his love for Anne was real. Maybe it had been. _It is!_ \- his mind screamed. Yes, he still loved his Anne, but not in the way he loved Bess. His feelings for Bess was more like an intense infatuation. He desired her body. He craved her touch like an addiction. But with Anne, he had shared his darkest secrets and his hopes and dreams with her. Anne had made him happy as to where Bess made him detest himself. He had been intent with his wife living in the north where he was a lord in his own right. _His son. Her smile_. Those beautiful memories would be forever etched in his soul. But, alas, the Kingmaker's daughter had died, leaving him prey to the siren, the White Princess. _Was this truly love for Bess or something more dark?_

She looked to him pleadingly. Tormented. She ached for him vividly, and except for one sneaked kiss in the castle, he had so far denied her his touch. But now he could no longer deny himself. He had to have her. He collected her soft body into his embrace, and for a brief second, he sickened, just like he had felt the night she had kissed him after his son had died. He sickened for Anne and also at the fact Bess was his niece. She, like an enchantress, had seduced him. He had become her prey when it should have been the other way around. His touch harden and for a moment, he considered throwing her and his sinful lust to the ground, but then her lips met his and all his anger melted to passion.

As their intimacy intensified, Bess began to shed her clothes. She would have him now. She would not allow him to deny her any longer. He had ensured her that he would win the battle, and even though she wanted to believe him, she knew that nothing was ever certain in war. He could die. Her love, her Richard, her king, could die tomorrow, and she would not be denied her first and final night with him. If he died, she would be forced to become wife to the Tudor, the man who sought to steal the crown. Her kiss deepened, her breathing now frantic. She would give herself to Richard not only because she loved him with all her heart but also to deny that Tudor bastard the gift of virginity in case he wins the battle tomorrow. Even if Richard died, a part of him would always be within her. She would have this moment for the rest of her life, and he if died tomorrow, there would nothing beyond this moment for her body may continue to live, but her heart would wither.

Now completely spellbound, Anne far from his thoughts, Richard scooped up his niece up, breathing deep and lusty, feeling the tips of her hardened nipples against his hairless chest, and reclined her on the regal bed in his campaign tent. After shedding his clothes, he straddled her, and looming in between her legs, he gazed down upon her serenity. She was beautifully erotic, perfect in every way. She was young, 19, barely a woman, and he nearly 33, and yet she sprawled beneath him willingly offering her sanctity to the man responsible for her bastardization and accused of the murder of her child brothers.

"Uncle…" she called to him, no longer able to hide the urgency in her voice.

Richard felt his gut cring. Coming down upon her, he hissed sharply, "Do not call me that while beneath me." He had watched her grow up. She was the daughter of his brother. His blood. He had loved her as a child, and now as a woman, he loved her a different way, and it sickened him. He should be protecting her from Henry Tudor as an uncle should protect his niece, not fucking her. He almost withdrew, but when she wrapped her arms around him, he knew there was no turning back now.

"Aye!" his niece yelped beneath him as he impaled his engorged manhood inside her diminutive canal, stopping only after a few inches. He had broken her maiden sheath, and like her, it had been defiant, causing him to use more force than he had wanted to. Completely still, he watched her writhe beneath him. Briefly he found a sort of twisted satisfaction in her discomfort. She had enslaved him under her spell, causing him to commit the most heinous crime of all, incest, fucking his own niece, and she had been the root his dear Anne's grief, and for a moment he found pleasure in her pain. _She deserved it and more._ He had never felt gratification in the brutalization of women. It normally disgusted him. That had been one of the reasons he had fallen in love with Anne. He had pitied her for all that she had endured before their marriage, and within time that piety evolved into an overwhelming need to protect her.

Just as quickly as the sadistic fetish arose, it vanished. His beloved niece was pinned beneath him, suffering his lust - a lust that was causing her pain. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked, placid inside her, hoping she would soon adjust to his size. Withdrawing from her would be one of the hardest things he would ever have to do, but for her, he would.

Astonished, "No, no, Richard, my love. Love me. There is no pain, just an ache to have you deeper. Please, just love me. I want you - all of you. Fill me with your love."

 _She always knew the right thing to say_. Besotted, his thoughts whirling, he succumbed to the one thing he wanted most; his niece. In and out, deep and deeper with each thrust, gentle, but unyielding, he made love to his niece - and yes, it was love for only love could feel this good. He kissed her neck, suckled her breasts, ravished her with tender affection, bringing her to climax before he even thought about releasing himself.

Digging her nails into the flesh of his slightly freckled back, Bess rode against each thrust, heightening her orgasm with each stride. She tried to gasp his name, but ecstasy had left her near breathless. She could not talk. She could not think. She could barely breath. Finally, nearly delirious, she wailed, releasing the tension that brewed deep inside of her.

"Elizabeth…." he moaned, feeling her gush against his rhythmatic manhood, exhilarating him, casting him deeper into a realm of sensual ecstasy. He felt her body writhing, could hear her lustful sobs of bliss, smell her feminine sap, hear it sloshing against his hard-driving cock. She thrashed her head back and forth, whimpering, unable to contain her rapture. He had predicted that she would be spirited, but was not prepared for such carnal frenzy. He had not had a fuck this good in years. He had forgotten how intoxicating to the ego it could be. He and Anne had enjoyed some euphoria nights, but these last years she had turned from him. Perhaps that had been one of the reasons he had become so compelled with his niece's affection.

Incited by her salacious behavior, Richard's strokes intensified until he could no longer resist. Burying himself as deep as he could penetrate her, trembling, sweating, panting, he filled her with his creamy male nector.

A minute later, he dropped to her side, suddenly shame-washed, his seeping cock drenched in a mixture of his and Elizabeth's lust now flagging, and his debaucherous bravado crashing. The reality of the moment striking him. His niece oblivious to his shame, cuddled close to him, content. As she slept sweetly at his side, dreaming of a future as his bride, his torment raged, filling his soul with self loathing. If there had been a shred of honor left in him after seizing the crown, dishonoring his wife, and beheading those once loyal to him, he had just severed it along with his niece's digenty. He had ruin her as she had utilmatly ruin him. _If he died tomorrow, death would not be not be more deserving._

Notes:

Alas, we all know beautiful Richard lost….but his memory will remain always within those who loved him.


End file.
